Hoarder

I often dream deep when I don’t get enough sleep, as I did last night. Lots of them, broken by visits to the loo. The one that stuck featured a group of people, myself included being taken around this house. We were led to a door to a flight of stairs. Well that is what it looked like. Actually it was a self-contained flat. We were told that an old lady lived there, a Mrs Smith. The man showing us round told us she was his client and proceeded to open the door. It was jammed all the way down the stairs and beyond with boxes, clothes, plastic bags all full with stuff. He asked if any of us would like to look inside. One man came forward and began to try and push himself through all the clutter. He got nowhere and soon returned all creased and hot. She thinks she is still alive, said the man showing us round, but actually she is dead. It reminded me of yesterday’s dream in an airport, a kind of no man’s land where we were waiting for our flight for days. I remember stairs there too, but normal, domestic, carpeted stairs and a big door that I was going to open but then didn’t realising that once I did I wouldn’t be able to return to where I was. On the stairs was an envelope under which was someone’s wallet. Had they left it behind? Should I check? I was asking myself as I woke.

A good, good day yesterday. A full day. A rich day. There is much there, much enthusiasm, much support. Now I must make sense of it all, establish some order, some control. And begin.